Pop Rocks and Coke
by sillynekorobs
Summary: Toki decides to get to know the drummer a little better. The results could be explosive. Toki/Pickles: a delightful blend of cute and crazy.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I love Dethslash. No secret there. So I thought I'd write some.

Disclaimer: Metalocalypse and characters belong to Small and Blacha, and I make no profit whatsoever for writing about them.

- / - / - / - / -

"Alright, I'll give. I'm gonna ask. What're you doin' down there?"

"Huh?" Toki looked up from the floor, his upside-down face somewhat startled as ice blue eyes met the puzzled green of the drummer's own. Caramel-brown hair fanned out in a disarrayed halo around his shoulders. "Oh, not'ings, really. Just being boreds."

"Yeah? Yer rollin' around down there like a dog, or somethin'."

"Hey, I is not!"

Pickles snickered and went back to reading, the newest issue of _Rolling Stone _spread across his knees as he relaxed on an out of the way sofa in Dethklok's main entertainment room. He had been trying to avoid company to preserve his magazine from both the mockery and physical destruction of his band mates and had been wary of Toki's approach. But then all the kid had done was sit down next to the couch and chatter in an innocent sort of way, so it turned out his worry was unfounded. Reassured, Pickles had promptly tuned him out. Toki tended to migrate between band members in search of someone who would tolerate him, and was generally harmless.

"Yeah, ya kinda are."

The young Norwegian had been flopping listlessly from side to side, humming under his breath. A model airplane lay abandoned beside him. The closest thing Pickles could find to compare him to was a dog on its back, using carpet fibers to scratch an itch it couldn't reach. He grinned lopsidedly at the thought, causing Toki to pout up at him.

"Well, I's one real boreds guy. You pays attentions to me and maybes I don'ts be boreds and acts like a dog."

"What, you want me ta throw ya a stick?"

"No!" Toki popped upright, his head now level with the drummer's elbow. "Just… I don'ts know… plays wit me, or somet'ing? No one else wills."

"Play wit'cha?" The improvised curtain of a magazine was lowered enough for pierced brows to quirk skeptically. Pickles had mentally vowed to ignore his spastic little band mate's antics, but couldn't quite let the opportunity for a jibe pass. "What are ya, in Kindergarten? Go play wit'cherself."

"Comes on. Just one round of DDR," the rhythm guitarist wheedled, either not getting the crack or choosing to let it go without comment. Pickles bet it was the former. "Just one level on de videogames. I lets you picks which one, even!"

Pickles sighed, flipping the mag closed. "Toki, dood. I'm busy."

"Aww… please?"

Knowing that his quiet time had officially been read its last rites, the drummer stood up. "Fer a dog, ya don't mind very well. I'm gonna go read someplace _quiet. _So go play by yerself, little doggy."

"Hmph!"

Satisfied that he had won, Pickles collected his magazine and struck out for the door as soon as he realized he was grasping at the empty space on the table beside him where a bottle should be. It was much harder to read and actually comprehend what one was reading while completely smashed, so for once he had forgone bringing in liquid refreshments. He stepped over Toki, who was once more lying prone on the floor. What he hadn't counted on, though, was said Toki suddenly surging upright and slamming a shoulder into the inside of his knee.

"Whoa!" Caught off balance, Pickles flailed his arms in a futile effort to stay upright. One more good knock from the Norwegian had him falling backwards to sprawl ungracefully across the sofa, the _Rolling Stone _landing neatly over his face in a flurry of pages. "Toki, what the hell're ya doin'?"

"I's beings a bad dog." Laughing gleefully, Toki leaped upon his fallen friend and began to growl and snap playfully.

"Yer goofed up in'a head, is what ya are!" Smacking away the magazine, the redhead wedged a knee against Toki's chest and tried to keep the teeth away. He didn't really want to find out if Toki would actually bite him or not. "Lemme up, ya little psycho!"

"Not until you plays wit me!"

Pickles managed to flip over onto his stomach, hauling himself partially out from under the younger guitarist with a good grip on the arm of the sofa. A burst of startled laughter escaped him, though, as Toki secured a single dreadlock between his teeth and tugged. "Hey! Spit that out!"

"Makes me," came the muffled response as Toki shook his head, quite dog-like, growling impishly all the while.

All the drummer could do was kick, squirm, and laugh as he was mercilessly "savaged." Trying to save the least bit of face, he got his hands under the remaining tangles of dreads to cover the nape of his neck—it tickled like shit, and he couldn't quit giggling. Like it or not, he was grudgingly beginning to have fun. Sometimes he actually missed impromptu weirdness like this that had once been so commonplace when he was young. But that was a long time ago. A different band. A different world.

Shaking off such thoughts, Pickles gave a hard kick. If Toki wanted to play rough, fine. The rhythm guitarist gave a yelp as he was sent tumbling off the couch and Pickles let out a victory whoop. What he hadn't counted on was being pulled along for the drop. They hit the floor with a loud thump, the forgotten magazine fluttering down beside them as they laughed and struggled.

"Gives up yets?"

"Oh, you wish, ya little douche-critter!" Under normal ass-kicking circumstances Pickles wouldn't have hesitated to go straight for the hair and pull like a bitch—any one the others would do the same to him in a second. But this wasn't a real fight, he reminded himself, and only tugged hard enough at handfuls of that caramel silk for Toki to be able to feel it.

Toki himself didn't seem to have any reservations about playing dirty and went straight for the redhead's ribs, tickling for all he was worth. Pickles immediately let out a high-pitched scream like to rival a teenage girl and redoubled his own offense. Okay, he would admit it. This was fun.

"You guys are fuckin' noisy."

The two on the floor froze, glancing up in shock as Nathan walked casually past.

Toki blinked first. "Oh, hi, Nat'ens. Whats you doing in here?"

"Gonna watch some TV. So keep it down, okay?"

Toki nodded "Okay, we can does dat. Hey… where's you goings, Pickle?"

While Toki was distracted and no longer actively trying to keep him down, Pickles had weaseled away. Fun as the roughhousing had become, he had other plans. They didn't involved being belittled by Nathan for un-metal behavior with Toki. On hands and knees he crawled around the low table in front of the couch, craftily reeling in his reading material on the way. "Like I told ya, I'm goin' back ta my room. Have fun playin' wit'cherself."

With one last laugh he was on his feet and out the door into the hallway, surprisingly agile, leaving behind the pouting Norwegian. The drummer shook his head almost fondly as he padded back toward his section of the haus. He also made a mental note to spend a little more time with Toki, when he didn't have anything else requiring attention on his agenda. If nothing else, the kid was always good for a little entertainment.

- / - / - / - / -

A while later, Toki sulked as he wandered the halls of Mordhaus on a roundabout route to his own small room. Attempts at finding someone else to hang out with had not gone well. Nathan had soon banished him from the TV room for being "too fucking noisy." He had been thrown out of Skwisgaar's room almost as soon as he had arrived in favor of the evening's accompaniment of GMILFs. He hadn't even been able to _find _Murderface.

Reaching his room at last, the young guitarist kicked the door shut and sprawled upon his twin bed with a sigh. No one ever seemed to want to hang out with him. "Dis sucks a holy lots."

He wished Pickles had stuck around. The drummer always seemed to be friendliest to the Norwegian on a consistent basis, not just from time to time when there was nothing better to do. Toki would have even sworn that Pickles had been having just as much fun while they were wrestling around earlier. He had been laughing, too, and none of the blows that had hit home had hurt Toki in the least. Yes, they had both had fun. So why had the redhead run off to read his stupid magazine and left poor Toki alone and lonely?

"Plays wit myself. Ha. Yeah, rights." Toki pouted sullenly, pulling his Deddy Bear from its spot on the pillow. Deddy, at least, was always there for him. When all your pets died brutally, a stuffed facsimile could work wonders to ease unhappiness. "Whats is dere to do all bys myself?" he asked the bear. Not that he expected any kind of answer. "I don'ts gots no more models to build. De internet ams boring today. What am I gonna dos wit just Toki?" The thought of practicing with his guitar didn't even cross his mind.

Sighing, he pulled Deddy into his arms and squeezed. That usually made him feel better. He took a deep breath and inhaled the soothing scent of… marijuana. Toki's pale blue eyes popped open quizzically. Since when did Deddy smell like pot?

Uncertainly, the Norwegian held the toy at arm's length. "Deddy, dids you takes up a habit I didn'ts knows about or somet'ing?"

It took him a few moments of suspicious sniffing to come to the only logical conclusion. A deep inhale with his nose buried in a handful of his own shirt confirmed it. Deddy didn't smell different. Toki did. With a start, he realized what must have happened. He and Pickles had been rolling around literally on top of one another, and the scent of weed and whiskey that always clung to the drummer had simply rubbed off on him.

_Well, dat makes sense,_ Toki thought. Surreptitiously he took another breath. It didn't smell bad, actually. Far from it. The smell of smoke and booze naturally reminded him of Pickles, and that was oddly comforting. He smiled slightly as his eyes drifted closed, rubbing the fabric of the t-shirt against his cheek without even fully realizing he was doing so.

What he couldn't help but notice, though, was the sudden tightness in his pants. Toki sat up straight with a small, embarrassed "eep!" Eyes darting quickly around his empty room, he pulled the hem of his trouble-making shirt down over the noticeable bulge in his lap despite the clear lack of an audience.

"Wowee… dat's kinda weirds."

Not that he didn't feel the need to jack off from time to time. He did, occasionally. It was just that… he had never really thought about someone other than a woman when he did so. Sure he occasionally got all tingly when Nathan growled and bellowed onstage, or when Skwisgaar lounged bare and proud in the hot tub right next to him, but he had never gotten this strong of a reaction—or considered the possibility of jacking off because of it.

And he sure was considering. Slowly Toki released his grip on the shirt, letting it slide back up to its normal position. His lap was uncovered once more.

Toki knew what the rest of the guys thought, or adamantly claimed they thought, about being "gay." He knew they would toss him to the yard wolves and possibly banish him from the band forever if they ever knew he was thinking about what he was thinking about right at that moment. But Toki thought a little differently than the other guys did, in more than a few areas. Just like he knew for a fact that chocolate chips really were an acceptable breakfast food, he knew that there was more to a person than "gay" and "straight." There were plenty of people who were in between, he had the sense to see. He just had enough of a brain to keep differing opinions of that magnitude to himself. Going along to get along was more often than not the better way to go.

"Well," he told himself slowly as the need to slip a hand down his pants continued to grow rather than ebb away as he had half hoped it would. "I guess dey can't sees me now, cans dey?" Deddy Bear stared back with his ever-shining black button eyes and cheerfully stitched smile. "And Pickle did tells me to plays wit myself…"

Once the wires finally connected in his mind, there was no stopping it. Toki snickered to himself, flopping backward on his mattress without another thought. Deddy was found and placed in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He fondly believed that Deddy would approve of anything that made Toki feel good. Deddy was understanding that way. For that matter, so was Pickles, for the most part, so Toki wouldn't feel bad if he just so happened to harbor an impure thought or two about his band mate while he had his fun.

A quick grope into the nightstand drawer produced the mostly full bottle of lube that Toki had shamelessly lifted from Skwisgaar when the blonde was careless enough to leave it sitting out. Toki felt no guilt; the man probably bought the stuff by the case and wouldn't miss a solitary bottle. Flipping the cap with one hand, the young guitarist quickly unbuttoned his pants. Squirming out of their confines until he could feel the cool fabric of the bedspread against the backs of his legs felt good, and he pulled his shirt up, too. The scent of whiskey and weed hit him again and he moaned softly.

"Dis ams not wrong… dis ams not wrong." The theory was stubbornly repeated as he slicked up a hand rough from guitar strings and wrapped it around himself. "Oooh…!" And even if it was wrong, he didn't really care. It felt too damn good to stop.

As the up-down-squeeze-twist motion of one hand increased, the other rose to wrap in long brown hair. He tugged at it firmly but gently. Like Pickles had. Thinking of the drummer brought a little gasp and a half smile to his lips as he bucked up, twisting on the blankets. No matter that Pickles would probably perform an extended solo on his ass—and not in the good way—with those wickedly rapid-fire drumsticks if he suspected, the rhythm guitarist's naughty side couldn't find the inclination to halt that line of thinking.

Smiling green eyes. That crooked smirk. Bright, frizzy ropes of dreads. A propensity for wandering the house nearly naked. That slurred Wisconsinite accent that Toki found so fascinating.

In fact, Toki was still thinking of the redhead a few minutes later when he soaked his hand in more than lube. He quickly turned his head to muffle a little yelp of satisfaction in Deddy Bear's cloth middle and pictured Pickles rolling his eyes good-naturedly that the stuffed toy was present at all on such an occasion. All in all, not a bad way to spend time on a bored Wednesday afternoon.

Somewhat sleepily the Norwegian dug up some tissues and tidied up, careful not to touch Deddy in the meantime. That done, he considered his options for a moment and shrugged. It couldn't hurt to allow himself a little nap. No one was likely to come looking for him. The young guitarist often didn't sleep well at night and now, while he actually felt tired, seemed like a fantastic time to catch up on his rest.

Toki crawled under his blankets without further thought on the matter, casual in only a shirt. It was his room. He could sleep without pants if he wanted. Deddy was tucked snuggly under his chin. Combined with the pleasant post-orgasmic haze, it was incredibly warm and cozy.

The last coherent thought that flitted through Toki's mind before drowsiness claimed him was that he really would have to go bother Pickles some more when he woke up. No harm in spending time with a friend, after all.

- / - / - / - / -

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** More cute and metal, to tide over until they get around to providing more episodes. Soon. I hope I hope I hope.

**Characters:** Belong to Small & Blacha.

- / - / - / - / -

Toki's room wasn't far from the drummer's own, so it should have come as no surprise to Pickles when he returned from a booze run later that evening to find the rhythm guitarist there waiting for him. Not only waiting, but digging in his stuff.

Upon entering his room with sundry bottles of liquid happiness and kicking the door shut behind him, the redhead noticed that the opposite door, that of the closet across the large room, was open, and someone's lower half was protruding out of it. That someone was wearing a pair of blue pajama pants covered in big yellow stars. Guessing the owner wasn't difficult. Creeping up behind the Norwegian prowler on sneaker-shod, nearly silent feet, Pickles took a deep breath.

"WHA'THEHELLYADOIN'?" Pickles screamed, more for effect than because he was really angry.

Toki shrieked and spun to face the drummer, but unluckily dropped his foot right on top of a cue ball that had rolled from the cluttered closet. He went down with a yelp, backwards and right into the closet with a loud crash. A rain of boxes and miscellany showered down, nearly covering him.

"I guess that'll teach ya not ta mess around with other people's shit," Pickles mused as the startled guitarist thrashed and sputtered. "What're ya doin' in here, anyways?"

"Pickle, I sorries!" Toki gasped, trying in vain to struggle up out of the pile he had fallen into. "I comes in to sees you and you weren'ts here so I stays to waits for you and I gots bored and de closets door was open a liddle bit and—"

"Yeah, yeah." Reaching out, the drummer deftly swiped off a battered silk top hat that had fallen onto Toki's mussed head from the top shelf. Pickles had been seventeen, Tony twenty-something. He'd made fun of Tony for buying it, then refused to let him throw it away years later when it was full of rips and holes and stained beyond repair. Nobody wore that hat. Not even by accident. "Curiosity killed the cat, y'know."

Toki's face fell. "A cat is deads?"

"It's an expression, douche-critter."

"I is nots a douche-critter!"

"Whatever ya are, yer ass is gonna get kicked if ya don't pick up my shit. Lookit this mess." Pickles pointed to the motley collection that had fallen from the depths of the closet, conveniently cutting Toki off when the younger musician opened his mouth and looked ready to point out the piles of dirty laundry and stacks of empty booze bottles that littered the rest of the spacious room. "Not that other mess. This mess right here. The other mess don't count. And then ya can scram. I'm still busy."

Toki pouted, looking rebellious as usual, but for once did as he was told. Pickles wondered at the lack of argument from the sometimes spoiled kid, but wasn't going to complain. He could enjoy the evening's drinking much more without listening to Toki whine or getting into a brawl with him over the clean up.

There was welcome silence for a few minutes, during which Pickles debated which bottle to crack first and Toki dutifully picked up the spill and shoved it more or less back where it had come from. When he reached an upended shoebox, however, the snapshots and papers that had been inside crinkling under his bare feet, Toki seemed to take interest.

"Hey, Pickle?"  
"Yep."

"Whats is dis stuff? Dese papers?"

The drummer looked up from where he had perched on the bed, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and tequila in the other. The toughest choice he'd had to make all day. When he saw exactly what Toki had, he blinked. "That? I dunno. What's it say?"

"I don'ts know. I can'ts read it." Toki turned the ragged piece of notebook paper in his hands, looking at it confusedly. "You know I's bad at readings English. And dis is like de chicken's scratches."

Well, that explained a lot. Toki could read enough English to get by, but if the words in question were handwritten, forget it. Pickles hoisted himself off the bed and ambled over. "Lemme see."

Toki handed off the paper and peered over the redhead's shoulder curiously. "Whats is it?"

Pickles had to grin. "It's a note Sammy wrote, a million years ago. Tellin' me an' Tony off fer somethin' we did. Back when we were all shacked up in shitty apartments in L.A., waitin' ta hit it big."

"Sammy?" The Norwegian's head cocked as he visibly thought the statement out. "Oh! De guys in your olds band."

"Yeah. I guess I kept it 'cause I thought it was funny."

"What dids you do dat makes him all mads?" Toki asked, genuinely curious.

Pickles stalled for half a beat, then made up his mind. What the hell. "Y'want me ta read it to ya?"

"Yeah!" Toki's pleased smile backed up the assertion.

Still grinning, Pickles began to read. "It says: 'Pickles and Tony; I don't know how to say this nicely… so I won't. I don't want you guys coming over here anymore when I'm not home. You eat all my food. You drink all my beer and smoke all my pot and use all my coke. You make a huge mess, and I don't know how you killed my parakeet with the spatula, but you did. And yeah, I know it was you two happy fuckers. You also tried to flush it and now my landlord is pissed because you flooded the bathroom. You flush FISH, you idiots, NOT birds. But the biggest issue here is that Janet won't… you know… with me now because I let you in, left you alone, and you used those good kitchen towels she gave me to clean up the flooded bathroom. She hand-stitched those towels, assholes, and you guys cram them in the toilet. When I don't get laid, Thunderbottom, it's a bad time for everyone. So I'm warning you two now. Stay OUT of my apartment. Don't make me tell Bullets what happened to his favorite shirt. I bet he'd love to hear about that time with the flaming blender.'"

Toki giggled uncontrollably. "For reals, dat's what it says? For reals?"

"Y-yeah!" Pickles was laughing so hard he had barely been able to finish reading the note. Oh, man, he had totally forgotten about that particular argument. Tears of mirth in his eyes, he knelt to paw through the rest of the box. "Dood, the shit we got up to. 'Specially me an' Tony. We were a riot."

"Lets me sees more! What happeneds here in dis picture?"

"That one? Oh, damn, this was the mornin' after the night Bullets accidentally brought the tranny hooker home. He was trashed, a'course. See his face when he figured out? Priceless!"

Sitting in the wreckage of his closet with the laughing guitarist, an hour managed to slip by almost without Pickles noticing. They found a Magic 8 Ball, which fascinated Toki to the point of distraction. ("Wowee! How does it know all dis?") Pickles uncovered an old Atari, and Toki extracted a promise that they would find a TV to plug it into later. ("I don'ts care if it's old, I wants to plays with it!") Somewhere in the middle of it all, jeans rolled up and bright red cowboy boots that he hadn't seen in literally years on his feet, Pickles found himself astonishingly close to happy.

Toki smiled cheerfully, a Slinky moving fluidly from one hand to the other in a tubular blur of neon colors. "Dis is so cool! I really likes it. Thanks for lettings me hangs out with you, Pickle. Is real fun."

It caught the drummer off guard. He really was letting Toki hang out, wasn't he? And he was actually enjoying it—to the point that he had barely noticed the lack of the liquor he hadn't had a chance to drink yet. It was a little unsettling. "Yeah, well. Maybe yer not so bad when yer not bein' a pissy, whiny crybaby."

Unaffected, the Norwegian grinned back. "Yeah, well, maybe I's only a pissy whiny cries-babies when everybody is mean to mes."

Surging up from his seat on the edge of the bed, Pickles kicked off the old boots. Toki, friendly and happy and smiling up at him in his goofy star-spangled pajama pants, was suddenly cute. Really cute. Damn cute. Shit. "Whatever. Stay there if ya wanna. I'm takin' a shower."

"Okay. I stays here and waits."

None the wiser, Toki continued to play with his new toy as Pickles beat a hasty retreat. Ignoble though it may be, removing himself from the source of temptation was better than the obvious alternative: the tried and true Murderface method of punching his crotch until the thought of Toki was no longer appealing.

- / - / - / - / -

After a few more minutes of Slinky action, Toki set it aside. He looked around, wondering what else he should do while he waited. He was hesitant to resume snooping through Pickles' things before the drummer returned. Best not to push his luck, especially after finding that snapshot of a much younger redhead with his tongue firmly stuck inside a whiskey bottle and an infuriated middle finger flipped toward the camera. Pickles hadn't been too happy with the rediscovery of that particular photograph, even if Toki did think it was funny. Looking for something else to occupy himself with, he glanced around and happened to spot something to his liking on the nightstand next to the drummer's bed.

"Candy! Cool!"

Scampering over, Toki snatched up a small handful of the Smarties candies and popped them into his mouth without a thought. He didn't bother to wonder why Pickles of all people had candy in his room, or why said candy tasted a little funny. All he knew, as the fins began to close in on him across the floor a few minutes later, was that he should move to higher ground.

- / - / - / - / -

When Pickles emerged from the shower a while later with dripping dreads and a much clearer state of mind, he felt quite refreshed. He also felt more in control of his recent tendency to think affectionately toward Toki. He was much happier when he pushed open the bathroom door and beheld—the aforementioned Norwegian, standing on his bed.

Toki, when he caught sight of the redhead, began to bounce on the mattress and yell frantically. "Pickle, Pickle! Gets off de floor, Pickle, quick! They's gonna eat you if you don'ts get off de floor!"

"What the hell?" Pierced red brows went up in surprise.

"De carpets sharks! Quick, Pickle, gets up on here on de bed wit' me! Dey can't climbs up here! Hurry!"

While his first response was to heed his band mate's agitated squeals and get off the floor as quickly as possible, Pickles managed to force himself to think the situation through. The lack of booze might have helped with that. Cautiously scooting over to the bed, warily scanning the floor for anything out of the ordinary, he soon noticed the disappearance of most of his candy.

"Dood, Toki, no wonder yer seein' weird shit! You just took half my LSD, ya little dick. I was savin' that."

Toki looked confused on top of his horror that Pickles was still within the grasp of whatever scary thing it was that he was seeing. "No I didn'ts, I just eats your candies. You gonna gets off de floor or you gonna die!"

"No, I'm not, because the goofy stuff yer seein' ain't real!" The redhead pointed firmly at his side table, the remaining candies, and the small vial next to the wrapper. "That candy was soaked in acid. Yer higher than the Hatredcopter, kid. Even I wouldn't take that much."

Now that he pointed it out, Pickles realized it was probably next to useless to argue with the younger man. The last time Pickles had taken the stuff himself he had tried to wrap Nathan's head in paper towels, believing that the singer's jet black hair had actually liquefied into ink. His jaw had hurt for days afterward; Nathan could throw a mean punch when he was annoyed. Not pretty.

"That can'ts be right," Toki argued, swaying slightly in the middle of the large bed as he tripped lightly on one leg of his overlong pajama pants. "I's hardly ever highs. You's high all de time. Maybe I's the one who ams normal and you's de one what ams high and you just don't knows it!"

Pickles' green eyes widened considerably as the smirk fell from his face. He glanced down at his bare feet nervously. That sort of logic was awfully hard to dispute. "Dood. Ya think?"

"Yeah I does! Gets up—"

Before the sentence could fully form Pickles found himself standing in the center of his bed, as far from the edges as he could get, Toki clinging fearfully to him. Better humiliated than dead on the off chance that the guitarist was actually right.

"Whats we do now, Pickle?"

The redhead chewed his bottom lip, thinking. The dresser and chairs were too far from the bed and each other to furniture jump to the door. Neither of the men had their dethphones. No one was likely to come looking for either of them that night. The walls were thick stone—no one would hear them calling for help, even if they did feel like being seen in such an un-metal predicament.

"Okay, look. Here's the deal. We wait until morning, right? Whichever one of us is high, they'll be crashed by then. Then we'll know if there's floor sharks fer real or not."

"Carpets sharks," Toki corrected.

"Toki… I ain't got carpet in here."

- / - / - / - / -

Two hours later, Pickles was more convinced than ever that he was not, in fact, the one who was fucked up. Evidence had mounted when Toki became paranoid that the bed was sinking into the nonexistent carpet, and culminated in a fit of terror that the carved headboard of the drummer's bed had come to life and was about to devour them both. Pickles was not amused.

Luckily, he had left the unopened liquor bottles on the bed. When the young guitarist finally dropped into blessed sleep, snuggled up to Pickles' side like a leech with a Fu Manchu, Pickles was able to relax a bit and bring his blood alcohol content up to an acceptable level.

He tugged lightly at a long strand of caramel brown hair with the tips of his fingers, grinning. In the absence of his deddy bear, Toki was hugging the drummer's wiry arm close. Somehow, Pickles couldn't bring himself to believe that thinking Toki was adorable was bad. He couldn't remember why he had thought it was earlier. Oh, well. At least now he could indulge a bit in a favored, though most often suppressed, activity.

Buried deep in his emotional closet, Pickles was something of a cuddle-slut. Maybe it stemmed from the closest contact he ever got as a kid being a whap upside the head from Seth or their jerkoff dad. Whatever it was, he had never fought the urge to pile on top of his best pal Tony and the boys of Snakes 'n Barrels at any given down moment. He liked waking up hugging random groupie chicks on beds and couches and beach chairs almost as much as he enjoyed what happened with them the night before. And he sure didn't mind Toki curled up beside him now, breathing softly and twitching in his sleep. As long as no one else could see it, of course.

As if reading his mind, Toki squirmed even closer, letting out a small sigh in his sleep. Pickles had to smother his laughter with his free hand. Too cute. But then…

"Hey! Toki, what're ya doin'?"

Said guitarist had thrown a leg over Pickles' own, clearly making himself comfortable on both the drummer's bed and the drummer himself. When Pickles tried to scoot away, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable with the situation, he found himself pinned rather firmly in place. One of Toki's hands closed over his ribs, while his rumpled head landed on Pickles' chest and stayed. With another satisfied sigh, the Norwegian settled and became still again.

"You are like a feckin' koala, y'know that?"

The redhead sucked in a breath as Toki's leg insinuated itself more firmly between his own and a cheek nuzzled against his sternum. This could not possibly be metal. Though, if there was no chance anyone would see…

Casting a look at the door just to be sure, Pickles finally, tentatively, pulled his arm out from under Toki and laid it across the younger man's shoulders instead. Morning might be a little weird, especially if Toki had come down from orbit by then, but for now—for now, it was nice. He could allow Toki his clinging, just for one night. Enjoying Toki's warm presence, gently petting his cascading hair, Pickles pushed aside the half-full bottle of whiskey and settled in to sleep, lulled by the guitarist's soft snores.

Maybe Toki could hang out more often after all.

- / - / - / - / -

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** I have no idea how long this is going to go on for. Might as well be up front about it. Isn't admitting that you have a writing problem the first step toward… something? Yeah. I thought so.

**Characters:** The boys belong to Small & Blacha. As we're all aware, I'm sure.

- / - / - / - / -

Mid-morning was strangely kind to Pickles. He woke up nearly all at once, for a change, rather than performing his usual agonizing crawl to consciousness through the battering pain of a hangover more than worthy of a veteran rock star. Yes, the headache was there, but it was manageable, and he did not feel the pressing need to throw up—a bonus! Perhaps even better, the cherry on the proverbial top of his oddly good morning, was the little cutie using his shoulder as a pillow.

Raising his head, the drummer smiled. Aww. The brunette was a snuggler. He didn't remember having company last night, but this was certainly a nice surprise to wake up to. He shifted, pulling his bedmate closer with a happy smirk and half-lidded eyes.

The truth dawned like the sun coming up over the wastes of Mordland—just less majestically. Pickles' green eyes widened in something akin to panic as strong arms came up to hug him back and the rhythm guitarist's morning wood suddenly began rubbing against his own like it was determined to start a fire.

"Holy shit, Toki!"

"Huh…?" The reply dripped lingering sleep as ice blue eyes blinked up confusedly. "Whats is de matter, Pickle?"

Toki let out a yelp of surprise as he was pushed unceremoniously away and tumbled off the edge of the bed in a tangle of blankets. Pickles himself scuttled back against the headboard, grabbing the first pillow he came in contact with to cover his lap.

"What dids I do?" Toki wailed unhappily from the floor.

"Ya were grindin' on me, jeezus!" The drummer tried to ignore the raging blush that lit his face. It was okay. It was just Toki. Nothing special. Nothing to be excited about. Stiffie can go away now, yep.

The brunette's head slowly appeared over the edge of the mattress. He looked entirely contrite and very kissable. Shit.

"I sorries, Pickle," he whimpered, looking the picture of repentance. "It was an ask-ski-dents. Dat just… ams happens some of de times, you knows, in de mornings? But it bes okay, right? We's friends!" Suddenly he looked stricken, almost panicked himself. "We ams friends still, Pickle? You don't hates me now, does you?"

At that particular moment Pickles couldn't decide if he felt like a child molester, or like he had been molested by a child. Child figured in there somewhere, anyway, as he looked down at Toki's sniveling face. If the kid cried, that would move on from wrecking the morning to destroying his whole day. So he said the only thing he could under the circumstances.

"A'course we're still friends, ya little douchebag."

"We ams?" Toki's face lit up instantly. He scrambled back onto the bed, beaming. He still seemed rather happy in the starry pajama pants department. "Thanks de good-nests for dat! You's such a great pal, Pickle. I sorries I rubs up on you and touches your ding-dong wit my ding-dong and—"

"Toki. Stop talkin' and get out'a here." The drummer's headache was getting worse with the sudden vengeance of an avalanche.

The guitarist's face immediately fell, like a puppy that had seen someone rolling up a newspaper with his name on it. "Gets out? But you says we's still friends! Why you wants me to—"

"Ya can come back later, fer Gahd's sake! Just leave fer right NOW!" Pickles pointed exasperatedly at the door, determined that he was going to chuck the bedside lamp at Toki's head if the idiot kid didn't take an immediate hike to somewhere far away in the next five seconds.

Luckily for both Toki and Pickles' latest lamp, he took the hint. "Oh, okays. I comes back tonight den, after practices?"

"Sure. Absolutely. I'm dyin' of anticipation. Now git."

Mercifully, Toki got. He trotted around the bed and toward the door, only pausing to scoop the Slinky off the bedside table. "Cans I borrows dis? I still really likes it."

"Yes, you can take the damn Slinky!"

"Thanks! Sees you later, Pickle." Toki gave a good-natured wave and vanished, the heavy door shutting behind with a soft click.

Pickles stared after him for a long moment, unmoving. He wouldn't trust Toki not to breeze back in with an exclamation or a question he had forgotten to ask. However, a full minute passed, then two, with no returning footsteps or knocks. It must have been an all clear.

The drummer jumped off the bed, grabbed a dirty magazine off the dresser, and hit the bathroom door at a run before he could talk himself out of what he was about to do. The day was off to a fantastic start.

- / - / - / - / -

Pickles' day did not improve. Charles cornered the band at breakfast for another lecture about… something or other. After that Nathan pushed them into a brutal recording session that lasted all day and ended with three track deletions and a drumstick so far up Murderface's nasal cavity that the bassist had to be escorted to the hospital wing.

"He had it comin'!" was all the redhead would say on the last matter. Clearly, it had not been Pickles' fault that Murderface had taken it into his thick head to pick at Toki for the entire session, even moreso than Skwisgaar, for a change, and then had the bad judgment to make a jab at the drummer. Once was all it took.

Ah, well. Past was past. After a quick trip to the kitchens for a big sandwich and a bigger bottle of booze to go with it, Pickles was ready to spend the rest of the evening in his room doing absolutely nothing—that is, until he actually reached his room.

"Comes on, comes on! Just a little bits more!"

Pickles heard the muttering before he even opened the door, and knew immediately who it was. With a deep groan, he walked in. "Toki, what the hell are ya doin' in here? Again?"

Toki glanced up from his seat on the floor and smiled. "Oh, hi Pickle! I got boreds, so I came back here to hangs out with you again. Looks what I found!"

The drummer sighed as Toki held up a foot crammed inside an old rollerblade. He really needed to get rid of all the junk inside his closet. "How's that goin' for ya?"

"They's too small for mes," the guitarist said forlornly. "I never hads no skates of my own whens I was a kid, and these is so cool!" The rollerblades were jet black with neon green and purple lightning bolts zigzagged up the sides. Though scuffed with use and dull from long storage, they had a definite gleam of past glory. "I was hoping I coulds wear dem for a little bit."

Pickles had to grin. Of course the damn things were too small. They had been his when he was a teenager, and his feet were a lot smaller than Toki's. "Dood. Just buy a pair online. That's what the Internet's for, right? Shoppin' and porn?"

Toki brightened at the suggestion. "Hey, yeah, maybes I will! Den we cans go skating together, huh, Pickle? It woulds be lots of fun."

"Oh, yeah, sure. We could skate all over the place. We could skate right across the golf course an' be Meals on Wheels fer the yard wolves."

"Ha, ha. You's so funny, Pickle." Toki stuck up his foot in Pickle's general vicinity as the drummer padded over. "Cans you help me? I think it's stucks."

"Yeah, hang on. Gimme a second." Dropping a bottle of good wine on the bed, he took a giant bite out of his sandwich. Ahhh. Turkey, bacon, and cheddar. Italian bread. Easy on the mayo and lettuce, with perfectly ripe tomato slices. He had needed that. The sandwich was placed lovingly on the nightstand. "Mmm. Okay, gimme yer foot. Better not break my 'blades, ya little brat."

"Don't worry, I's not."

Pickles took hold of the skate and tugged. It was on tight. "Jeez, you really jammed it on there good, Toki." He braced his feet and yanked while Toki pulled the other way. The rollerblade came loose with a pop, sending the drummer sprawling backwards on his bed with a loud "oof!"

"You dids it! Thanks, Pickle. My foot was gettings sore all squished ups in dere."

"I wonder why?" Pickles laughed a little breathlessly. Despite the fact that he'd just been drilled in the gut with a heavy object, and he still wasn't eating that amazing sandwich, and tonight didn't look any better than the last as far as relaxing went, he found he didn't mind so much. At the very least Toki was entertaining.

"Ams you a good skater, Pickle?" the younger man wanted to know.

Pickles set the rollerblade on the floor beside its mate. "I wasn't too bad. Been a long time since I was on 'em, though. I might'a forgot how."

"Shows me?"

"Oh, heck no. Uh-uh." The drummer shook his head firmly, dreads swaying as he did. "I'm gonna sit here an' eat my sandwich, is what I'm gonna do. And then I'm gonna drink that million dollar bottle of wine that belonged to Henry VIII. And then—"

"You just won'ts does it because you knows you ams bad at it."

"Huh?"

"You's a chicken! You don'ts wants to skate 'cause you'll falls down and hurts yourself! Bawk bawk bawk!" Toki was smiling hugely.

Pickles snorted. "Toki, cut the crap. I'm not Skwisgaar. Makin' fun of me ain't gonna make me—"

"BAWK BAWK BAWK!" The guitarist was up and flapping his arms now, running around the bed obnoxiously. "Pickle ams a chicken, Pickle ams a chicken!"

On Toki's last pass Pickles picked up a pillow and casually bashed him in the face with it as he flapped by. "Settle down, douche-critter. If it'll shut ya the hell up, I'll put on the damn 'blades. Only fer a minute, ya hear me?"

Toki gave a thumbs-up from behind the pillow molded to his face.

It had indeed been a long time since Pickles put on rollerblades. For the first time in his life he found himself wishing that he had the protective gear that was supposed to go along with them. However, he was hardly drunk at all yet that evening, so he was better off for the endeavor than he usually would have been.

"See?" he said as he rolled away from the bed, a little unsteady but gaining confidence as his body remembered how to move and balance. "Easy. Just like ridin' a bike."

"That's good!" Toki chirped, keeping pace beside him. "Goes to de door?"

Pickles did, then decided to lap the room. Only because he already had the things strapped up, of course, and it would be a waste to only skate a few feet after the effort of getting them on. One lap led to two laps, two laps led to three, and by that time the drummer was grinning and going faster than he probably should have been. Toki stood in the middle of the room, laughing and clapping delightedly like a little boy at the circus as Pickles circled around him.

"Y'know, this is kinda fun!"

And it was. Until he hit the upraised corner of a stone block in the floor and pitched forward with a yelp. He had a split second to determine that the meeting between his face and the ground wouldn't be pleasant before he crashed into something much softer than the floor.

"You okays, Pickle?" Toki had lunged to break his fall.

The redhead had to laugh. Turns out all those generations of adults that told people not to play sports in the house had been right. Now he was sitting in Toki's lap with the rhythm guitarist sprawled across the rug, but his face was still in one piece and Toki seemed to be fine, too. "Yeah, I'm cool. Thanks, douche-critter."

"I is nots a douche-critter!" Toki cried, slugging Pickles in the upper arm. "Why's you gotta calls me dat all ofs a sudden?"

"Cause yer buggin' me all'a time, all of a sudden." There was no hostility in the words, and Pickles chuckled as he watched Toki pout. The kid had an adorable pout when he got miffed. Which was a lot.

Toki huffed, shoving himself up to brace on his arms. "It ams still mean." Then he caught Pickles' eye, saw the little grin, and went still.

They stared at one another for a few beats, inches apart. The drummer swallowed unconsciously. Damn, Toki's eyes were blue. Like some sort of tropical drink made with coconut rum and the barest hint of coloring to mimic the Caribbean Sea, or—

He was leaning forward. So was Toki. Their foreheads were actually touching before Pickles found his brain and realized what exactly he was doing. He was about to kiss the youngest member of their band. The one he should be thinking of as an annoying kid brother, if anything. The one he had jerked off to that morning. And he wasn't so far under any kind of influence that it could be excused.

Very slowly and casually, Pickles got his legs under him and stood up. If he didn't pitch a bitch fit they could smooth this all over. No need to get upset, or talk about anything, or kick anything out in the open.

"Pickle?" Toki asked quietly as two rollerblades hit the floor with a clatter, one behind the other. "You ams mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad? I'm hungry as hell and I want my sandwich."

Toki got up from the floor as Pickles sat back against the headboard of the bed and tore into his sandwich. The redhead watched with a mouthful of turkey as the younger man silently collected the rollerblades and put them back in the closet without being told. He could tell Toki was nervous. The kid knew something was up. Shit. He could be clueless about everything under the sun, except what Pickles wanted him to be clueless about. Like a little sexual tension between non-drunk band mates.

"Cans I tells you something?" Toki asked, crawling hesitantly onto the bed to sit next to Pickles.

He should kick the kid off his bed, tell him he was being a bother, and throw him out with instructions not to come back. "Yeah, sure." Well, when did Pickles ever do anything he should do?

"I likes hanging out with you, Pickle. I likes being around you. Even if I does annoys you."

"Yer… not that bad." Pickles crammed the last of his sandwich into his mouth, hoping he wasn't flushing.

Dear God. Toki totally had a crush on him. It was as plain as the earnest expression on the guitarist's face. Not pointing it out took a supreme effort, but Pickles managed. Just play it cool.

This wasn't anything to get worked up over, anyway. Toki had clung to everyone in the band at some point. He'd had a thing for Skwisgaar since forever, followed Nathan like a puppy after the singer saved his life, and driven Murderface to locking himself in the basement after the bassist began to drag Toki along on his various ill-advised exploits. It was just Pickles' turn, that was all. He just had to wait it out.

"Cans I ask you a question, Pickle?"

"Ya just did."

"Can I ask you anothers question?"

"Ya just did."

"Pickle!"

"Go ahead, Toki. What is it?"

Toki settled in, seeming to relax now that he hadn't been kicked out. "What does ding-dongs taste like?"

"Ding-dongs?" Pickles was digging in his bedside drawers for a proper glass to pour his million dollar wine into. Normally he wouldn't bother—historical accuracy was Murderface's department—but this seemed to call for some crystal, at least. "I guess they taste like chocolate an' frosting. You mean with all the sugary junk you eat you never ate a ding-dong?"

"No, I means the other kinds of ding-dong."

A glass hit the floor and shattered as Pickles fumbled. "What?"

"I finds dese old pictures in your closet, and I always did kinds of wants to know, and since we's friend I thought I could asks—"

"They taste bad, okay? Very, very bad. So ya don't need ta go findin' out fer yerself. And you stay the hell out'a any pictures you find in there, got it?" Christ, what kind of damning shit had he left in that closet, anyway? He was lucky Murderface hadn't been the one to find whatever it was; he'd have sold said pictures on eBay already. Or even worse, Nathan, who would have killed Pickles already.

"Oh. Okays." Toki wilted a bit under the flustered chastising before perking right back up again. "But maybe if you takes a fruit rolls-up, and rolls it around the ding-dong first, then it won't tastes bad—?"

"Toki, stop! Jest stop!" Laughing so hard he could barely hold the bottle, Pickles poured out two mismatched glasses of wine. "Here ya go, douche-critter. Bottoms up."

"You shares with me?"

"Why the hell not. Here's ta forgettin' all about this conversation!"

Toki was smiling happily as they clinked glasses. Despite every ounce of his common sense telling him otherwise, Pickles couldn't help but think that having the Norwegian as a personal groupie might not be so bad after all.

- / - / - / - / -

To be continued.

- / -

(2nd)AN: I have no good excuse for why this took so long to update, so I won't give one. Maybe sexytiems in the next chapter? I dunno! We'll find out when it happens.


	4. Chapter 4

**Characters:** Belong to Small & Blacha.

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The first day Toki's new rollerblades came in the mail he dragged Pickles outside to skate along the extensive sidewalks that crisscrossed the grounds of Mordhaus. That was also the day that Pickles broke his wrist.

"Gahd dammit," the drummer muttered as he and Toki limped out of the hospital wing after the fact. "Nate'n's gonna kill me. I can't drum like this!"

"I ams so sorries, Pickle," Toki whimpered. He had squeaked by with nothing more than a split lip and some scrapes when they fell over each other and crashed to the concrete in a tangle of limbs and wheels.

"It's not yer damn fault, Toki, unless you went an' told Murderface ta start whackin' golf balls at us when we went by. Thinks he's so funny—asshole. I should'a stuck that nine iron down his fat throat."

"You just hurts your wrist worse."

"It'd be worth it, though, right?"

In an effort to avoid the singer, at least for the time being, the two cut through the haus toward Pickles' room. They had been hanging out there a lot lately when not immersed in activities that included the entire band. Toki never tired of riffling through Pickles' belongings, and he had gotten adept at reading the drummer's mood. When it looked like the EKG of Pickles' patience was about to flatline the guitarist would quickly take his leave. He always came back, though, and Pickles had begun to expect it. Hell, to look forward to it.

"I guess we's not gonna be dancing arounds today, huh?" Toki asked sadly. He seemed to be cultivating a love for dance music from Pickles' stacks of material, and had already taught himself to walk like an Egyptian and perform the entire Thriller routine by watching youtube clips. It usually made Pickles laugh to see the kid in action, but today he was in no mood.

"If you feel like it, go right on ahead. I'm out." Pickles dropped his rollerblades by the door and walked painfully to the bed. "Dammit, I'm gettin' old. Gonna be sore as hell tomorrow."

Toki watched worriedly as the redhead sprawled out on the bed, bandaged wrist propped carefully on his stomach. "What else ams hurting you besides yous wrist?"

"My ass, my back, my neck, and my legs. Everything! So I'm gonna sit on my sore ass an' watch TV an' have a drink, like I should'a done when I got up this morning."

Toki was silent for a long moment, then perked up. "I haves an idea! Stays right here, Pickle. I will bes right back."

"Hey, wait a second, where're you—" But the Norwegian was already gone, disappearing out the door with a flash of brown hair. Pickles frowned. "Whatever. My ass ain't movin'." He reached for the bottle on the bedside table and turned on the TV.

- / - / - / - / -

Toki had every intention of proceeding directly to the kitchen. But, as it often did in Mordhaus, something popped up to divert his attention. As he passed the main board room where the band held most of their daily meetings, he heard voices raised in discussion. Figuring that it wouldn't hurt to take a quick peek in the interest of keeping up on band business, so the others couldn't accuse him of being clueless, he popped his head in.

"While I'm impressed that you boys took the initiative to worry about the next round of merchandise, current tour merch is still doing quite well sales wise." Charles straightened his glasses as he looked at the loot spread before him on the table. "So maybe we'll just shelve this for a few months and—"

"Now!" Nathan yelled, pounding a fist on the tabletop. "This is not about merch sales. This is about our mission in life! Make. Everything. Metal!"

"Hey, guys, whats yous doings?" Toki chirped. "Yous gots new stuff to—oh, wowee! Toys!"

Murderface grinned slyly as the Norwegian bounded in to inspect the spread of Dethklok-themed toys strewn across the table. "Ah, Toki. Jusht the guy we wanted to shee."

"I ams?"

"Shure. Toki, I want you to take a good look at theshe toysh. Touch them. Feel them. Tell ush what you think."

He grabbed for the closest unquestioningly. "Wowee, yous guys, these ams so cool! Looks at liddle Nat'ans doll ride Thunderhorse!" He galloped the plastic horse around Charles's coffee mug and brought it to a stop next to the Skwisgaar figure, which happened to be clothed in Viking armor and seated astride a white dragon.

"Those are the action figures, Toki. Not dolls. That's the Dark Magic Battle Fantasy series. Your action figure rides a troll. Look." Nathan hefted a cardboard box from beneath the table and pulled a foot tall plastic troll from within, then positioned a small Toki toy on its shoulders.

"Reallys?" Toki squealed, moved almost to tears. "Dis ams so awesome! How did yous guys comes up with a super amazings idea likes dis?"

"Shimple." Murderface smiled smugly and put his booted feet on the table. "Metal toysh make metal kidsh. Metal kidsh grow up to be metal adultsh who buy our albumsh and come to our showsh. Shimple."

"We have normal Sold-Out Concert action figures, too." Nathan pointed out the group of surprisingly accurate toy band mates and their respective instruments. "Sell those for like, twenty bucks each. Then you got the Concert Stage play set. Working lights, authentic Dethklok sounds, the whole deal. Sell that for fifty bucks. It'll work."

"And a Murdercycle vehicle for the figures to ride in." Charles suddenly looked much more interested. "And a Hatredcopter vehicle. And a Mordhause deluxe play set. I think you boys might be on to something, here."

"But whats abouts de liddle girls, Charlie?" Toki asked, suddenly frowning. "Dey don'ts wants no Murders-cycles and Hatreds-copters. Yous gots to makes cool toys for dem, toos!"

"Already got it covered. For the little girlsh, shtuffed dollsh!" Murderface reached into yet another box and pulled up two lanky plush dolls, with sewn on eyes and smiles. Two plush dolls that were unquestionably Skwisgaar and Toki. "Shee? You can brush their hair. And they come with a full line of Metal Fashion Wear—each outfit shold sheperately, of courshe."

"Aaaahh! Theys soooo cutes!" Toki dove for the box, pulling out the other three dolls that completed the band. He scooped the entire set into his arms and hugged them tightly. "Dey ams de cutest, coolest, most brutalest dolls in de whole worlds!"

Nathan grinned at their manager, showing a hint of fang. "So? What do you think? Toki acts like a kid. He's, like. Our target audience. If he likes them, kids will too."

"Done." Charles stood up decisively, the glint of profit margins in his eye. "Tell me which toymaker you contacted to make these prototypes and I'll draft up a contract this afternoon."

"Yeah!" Nathan bellowed, giving Murderface a double high five. "We did something right! We will make childhood METAL!"

Toki was still engrossed in the stuffed dolls. Each one had a tiny square of Velcro sewn to its hand. Sure enough, down inside the box were small accessories made of plush fabric—guitars, a microphone, two tiny drumsticks. These last Toki picked up with a smile. "Can I go shows dis to Pickle, Nathans? I bet he'll think it's real cool, toos!"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Just don't lose those dolls, alright? Not until we get the designs finalized with the… the guys. The toy maker jerk-offs."

"I won'ts, I keeps dem real safe. Sees yous guys later!"

Nathan gave Toki a sideways glance as the younger Norwegian skipped through the door and out of sight, clinging to the merch samples. "You know, he's really been bugging Pickles a lot lately."

Murderface nodded sagely. "Yep. Musht be hish turn. Pity the poor bashtard."

"Guess so. Pickles just better not overdose Toki when he gets tired of being followed around. If we have to waste time training up another rhythm, I'm gonna be pissed."

- / - / - / - / -

In the excitement of the toys, Toki very nearly forgot his original errand. Half way back to Pickles' room he remembered, though, and made an about-face in the direction of the kitchens. Many of his ideas somehow managed to tank. He knew this and accepted it. But this time he had an idea that was totally and completely infallible. All he had to do was get Jean Pierre to tell him where the oil was kept.

Jean Pierre, like all the staff at Mordhaus, was more than happy to bend to one of his lords' whims. Less than two minutes after finding their sewn-together chef Toki was on his way back to Pickles' room to put his grand plan into action, a small vial of rosemary olive oil in hand.

It was with his motley collection of cooking accessories and plush dolls that the guitarist burst in on his favorite drummer a while later, startling Pickles out of a really fascinating infomercial about some kind of tiny, invaluable blender that could also mix drinks.

"Toki, dood. I totally need, like… a thousand of those. An' some strawberries. And vodka." Pickles nodded firmly and gestured at the TV, dreads bouncing. "Lot'a vodka."

Toki smiled. It was obvious from the redhead's equally red cheeks and cheerful, wondering attitude that he was very drunk, at the least. Drunk and high at the most. As it would take nothing short of bio-chemical warfare to knock Pickles down, though, Toki wasn't too worried. That would just make the other man more likely to go along with his awesome plan. "That's is great. Maybe you buys one?"

"I already did." Pickles smiled widely, then pouted a moment later. "Won't get here fer a week, though. Shippin' and handlin' time. That ain't fair. I'm famous! They should gimme my blender quicker!"

Sensing an opening, Toki pounced like a slightly clumsy Scandinavian lion on a doped up gazelle. "Oh, yeah, they shoulds be real nice to yous. You ams a real famous guy. And you's so cool, too. People shoulds treat you betters."

Pickles cocked his head, intrigued. "Yeah?"

"You bets! You does nice things for everybodies, and they don'ts does no nice things back for yous. You helps Nat'ans wit de musics all de times. You ams nice to Charles a lots. You listens to Murdersface when he haves mouths diarrhea all abouts his Planet Pissings. Nobodies ever gives you nice favors backs, does they?"

"Well, uh… no?"

"That ams right!" Toki said triumphantly, holding out the bottle of oil. "So todays, I's gonna do somethings real nice for yous!"

"What's dat?" Pickles asked cluelessly.

"It ams oils. Cookings oils. I don'ts think it ams exactly rights, but—"

"Dood, yer gonna cook me somethin'? Dat's so nice!"

"No, Pickle, I's not cookings anything. I's going to—"

"Yer naht?" Pickles' eyes narrowed in confusion. "Then whatcha want wit' cookin' oil?" Suddenly the narrowed green eyes widened hugely in something akin to horror. "Oh, shit, yer naht gonna bake _me_, are ya?"

"No, Pickle," Toki sighed. Patience. Patience was the key here. He put the stuffed dolls he still carried under his arm onto the drummer's side table. "I's gonna—"

Sadly for Toki and his patience, Pickles' wandering attention was firmly caught by said dolls. "Are those voodoo dolls? Brutal! I wanna see." He crawled to the side of the bed and picked up the Skwisgaar doll, a bit more gingerly that usual for his broken wrist. "Where's the pins for 'em?"

"They ams not—"

"Dood, fuckin' wait a second. Is this one supposed ta be _me?_" He held up the drummer doll in another bout of abrupt terror. "No fuckin' way! What'd I do that'd make ya wanna voodoo me? I thought ya were crushin' on me, no tryin' ta curse me!"

"Pickle!" Toki yelled in exasperation. "They ams not voos-doos dolls!"

The redhead blinked. "Wha?"

"Nat'ans and Murdersface mades dose dolls to sells to liddle girls to makes dem more brutal and metals. It ams just a toy. No cursings."

"… oh. So yer naht gonna dump the oil on the doll an' bake it an' burn me alive wit' voodoo?"

"No. Whats kinds of drugs ams you on todays, Pickle?" Toki rolled his eyes.

"Well, what's the oil for, then?"

"I's gonna gives you a backs rub!" the guitarist exclaimed, getting back into the spirit of his original idea. "Yous always givings us real nice backs rubs and nobodies ams ever givings you one back. So I's goings to does it. Because you ams so nice to me lately and ams such a great pal."

"Yer doin' it 'cuz you got a crush on me," Pickles accused smugly.

"Huh? No I don'ts!" Toki blushed brightly.

"Yeah, suuuure yer naht."

"Do you ams wants dis backs rub or nots?"

"Uh… yes?" After a moment of further deliberation Pickles nodded and reiterated more firmly. "Yeah, yeah, sure. I'm still sore as hell from yer goofy ass fallin' all over me earlier."

Toki grinned happily. "Greats! Den takes your shirts off and lays down. Dis will be real nice, you sees."

- / - / - / - / -

To be continued.

- / - / - / - / -

**(2****nd****)AN: **I really am appalled that it took so long for this to get finished. There will be sexy-times next chapter to atone for this.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** The non-completion of this fic weighed on my conscience for months. I'm sorry it took so long to finish! But it's done now, and here it is.

**Characters:** Belong to Small & Blacha

/ - / - / - / - / - /

As he shrugged out of his shirt and flopped out on his bed, Pickles was pleased with the world in general. He was sore, and now Toki was so nicely offering to massage the sore away. Justice was clearly prevailing on a cosmic level.

"Make sure you warm that junk up before ya touch me with it. My skin's all delicate an' sensitive an' all that shit."

"I wills," Toki chirped, and sure enough the wet slap of his palms connecting with each other rang out a second later. "I's making it all nice and warms, just like you does."

"Yeah, I really ought'a stop doin' that. It's too nice. I'll let Nat'an an' Murderface an' Skwisgaar freeze. None'a them ever rubbed my back fer me."

Toki just laughed his little birdy laugh and dropped his hands to the redhead's shoulders. The strong smell of the rosemary that permeated the cooking oil wafted through the air—not the lavender or citrus or whatever that usually came along with this sort of thing, but still nice, Pickles decided.

Nice. What else was nice? Toki was nice. Toki was a nice kid. A real sweet little shit. Why Pickles had ever thought he was annoying was beyond him. He hummed appreciatively as Toki's strong hands dug into the tense muscles of his upper back. He would keep Toki around forever and ever if he would keep being this nice to a poor, beat up drummer.

Pickles crossed his arms under his chin and relaxed completely into the attention.

For once in his life, Toki wasn't chattering. He was all quiet concentration as he leaned over Pickles, studiously massaging. "You minds if I moves a liddle bit? I can'ts reach too well."

"Huh? Oh, sure. Knock yerself out. Do whatever."

"Okays! Thanks, Pickle." Toki proceeded to do just that. He scooted up the bed until he could sit down on the backs of Pickles' thighs. From there he could reach freckled shoulders without bending in half to do it.

The warm weight, the firm kneading, the positive attention all pooled together to quickly turn Pickles into a giant puddle of compliancy. A breathy huff escaped him.

"You sounds like a cat," Toki laughed.

"Wha? No I don't."

"You does! A big orange kitty cat what ams purring when you gets petted."

… was it the drummer's imagination, or did Toki sound like he was getting purry himself? His voice was going husky and a little lower than usual. Pickles kind of liked it. Maybe Toki would be a decent singer, if he could ever learn to pronounce English lyrics right. A singer that purred like a kitty. Amused by the idea, Pickles shifted up to prop on his arms so he could glance back at Toki—maybe see if the kid had managed to sprout cat ears suddenly, y'know, normal stuff like that—and his meandering line of thought came to a screeching halt.

"You got a boner." It wasn't a question.

Toki froze in the middle of what had become a very literal petting, face going red as a cherry popsicle under his Fu Manchu. "No I doesn't."

"Uh, yeah, ya do."

"No I doesn't!"

"Dood, Toki, yes ya do!" Pickles shoved himself even higher on his arms and pointedly bucked back against the guitarist. "I ain't a fourteen-year-old chick, I know damn well what a boner feels like."

They stared at each other for several moments, Toki wide-eyed like a dog about to be creamed by a speeding semi and Pickles sizing him up as shrewdly as someone so drunk could. He had known that the kid had a mad dude-crush on him, but this was a bit unexpected.

Well… it _had_ been quite a while since he'd been with another guy, the drummer reasoned. Toki _was_ pretty cute. And Toki _was_ already putting the moves on him. Why the hell not. Just a short foray into the cardinal sin of homo couldn't hurt.

"Okay. Here's the deal. Get up an' take off yer pants."

"Ams you serious?" Toki breathed, eyes wider than ever in awe and disbelief.

"If I wasn't serious I'da punched yer lights out by now, ya little dumbass. Now fer the last time, get off'a me an' get naked. I'mna walk ya through this."

Without another word Toki scrambled to obey. Pickles rolled over as the extra weight left him and likewise shed his own clothes, if a bit more sloppily. He might not have expected something like this, but who was he to rebuke the generous hand of fate when it handed him such an enthusiastic, if a bit inexperienced, partner?

And enthusiastic Toki certainly was. The dog he was channeling had completely recovered from its brush with death by semi and was making a complete fool of itself in anticipation of… whatever was happening here. Was this a game to him, or some kind of treat?

Going by the look of sheer glee on his face as he sized Pickles up, "treat" was exactly what Toki was thinking. He pounced, grabbing the drummer and dumping him back against the headboard with a little "whoa!" of drunken confusion. It took every ounce of mental effort Pickles could muster to remember to grab the oil bottle and keep it from spilling all over the damn bed.

"What're ya doin'?" he asked confusedly, still reeling from the quick move.

"I's gonna figures out how to does dis once and fors all!" Toki grinned triumphantly as he loomed over the smaller drummer. "Don't worries, I's been practicings."

Pickles gulped as long-fingered hands landed on his pale thighs with a definite sense of purpose. "Oh yeah? On what?"

"Pops-cockles," came the matter-of-fact answer. "Ands bananas."

"Wit fruit roll-ups 'round 'em?" Pickles grinned lopsidedly, loosening up a bit as Toki rolled his eyes.

"You just shooshes, okays? It will bes good, you sees!"

Pickles didn't argue. Mouth on dick was always better than mouth not on dick, even if said mouth didn't know what the hell it was doing. He simply shut his trap and let Toki put his practice to good use.

As it turned out, Toki was just as amateur as predicted. But he was also just as eager as predicted, tackling the challenge like he did everything he seriously put his mind to. Despite the potent cocktail still pumping through his system Pickles had surprisingly little trouble getting his body into the spirit of things.

"Yer alright, kid," he purred blissfully, a long section of caramel-colored hair tangled around his undamaged wrist. "No wonder ya always wanna suck cock—yer a damn prodigy. Natural talent!"

Toki beamed as best he could at the praise and kept right on trucking. The drummer, however, had slightly different plans for how the encounter would resolve itself. He used the impromptu leash of hair to pull the Norwegian from between his legs.

"Hey! I thoughts you say I's doing goods!" Toki whined.

"Oh, ya are. Totally are. But I can get a BJ any ol' time from any ol' groupie. So can you. So can any'a the guys. I got a better idea what we can do."

"Ja?" Toki grinned up at him like Christmas had come early and all the presents under the giant Mordhaus tree were for him.

"Yeah. But you get in the bedside drawer there an' grab some decent lube. No way is my ass gonna smell like a freakin' herb garden."

And that was how, after some slightly awkward maneuvering and some slightly more awkward prep, Toki Wartooth was officially inducted into the Brotherhood of Dudes Who Occasionally Do It with Other Dudes. Unsurprisingly at that point, he took to it like a duck to water.

"Dood, I… I totally forgot how much… how much fuckin' fun this shit can be," Pickles panted happily, lube-smeared hands digging into blankets and pillows.

Toki, meanwhile, just panted, like a husky running the Iditarod. Yeah, he was havin' all kinds of fun, too.

Neither had it in them to carry on for too much longer. Pickles, spurred on by the oral head start he'd been given, cut in the metaphorical line and went first, yowling mindless praises and curses. Toki was hot on his heels with a string of garbled Norwegian muffled in a wild spill of red dreadlocks.

They lay in a jumble afterward, staring blankly at the high ceiling. Pickles was first to break the silence with a good-natured whine. "Dood, I can't reach my smokes. You get 'em."

"Uh, sures." Toki wobbled his unsteady way on hands and knees across the rumpled bedding. Green eyes watched him lazily as he collected the cigarettes and lighter. "Um, Pickle…?"

The drummer happily accepted the pack and lit up, propping his back against the headboard. "Oh, ya want one? Sure thing, kiddo."

"Oh, uh, thanks you." Toki's eyes crossed as he looked down at the cigarette suddenly protruding from his lips. He crawled up to recline tentatively next to Pickles, looking rather lost. "I was gonna says dat I… I really didn't means for any of dis to happens. For all of dat to go so fars."

"Ah, well. Life's crazy like that sometimes, douche-critter." Pickles sighed contentedly, smoke spiraling around his head. "Jest enjoy the crazy shit when it comes. No big deal."

Toki seemed to relax a bit. "Ja, I guess you ams right. Is no big deals—oh dears Odin!" Suddenly he gasped in horror, the cigarette landing in his blanket-covered lap. "Whats is Nat'ans gonna say? He's gonna think we ams such real gay guys! Does you thinks he be real mads?"

"Well, I dunno," the redhead answered casually, tapping his own ash off the edge of the bed. "He might be real mad at you, anyway."

"Huh?" Toki looked up in alarm. "Whys just he gonna be mads at me and not you toos?"

"Cause I'm the drummer. I'm the best drummer on'a planet. Drummer's a big part'a the band. Real big part. I help write the music, too. Nate'n knows he can't replace me, so he's gotta put up with my shit, y'know? No offense, but rhythm? Maybe not so irreplaceable. Jest sayin'."

"… maybe we better keeps dis betweens just us, huh Pickle?" Toki's ice blue eyes were wide. His cigarette began to smoke in the covers.

Pickles grinned. His young bandmate's inherent blabbering problem: Solved. Easy as that. "No problem. I can keep a secret if you can."

"Oh, thanks you, Pickle!" Limp with relief, Toki slumped against the drummer.

Pickles leaned over him to flick the smoldering butt off the blankets before his bed caught fire. He fully intended to chill in it for a while and smoke alarms weren't part of his plan.

"It just ams toos bad dat I can'ts go tell Skwisgaar abouts gettings laid," Toki sighed a moment later. "He ams always pissings me off real bad. 'Oh, liddle Toki ams never gettings any, but I's a real big mans slut what gets all of de goils.' Boy he makes me mads!"

Pickles snickered. "Dood, I would totally never sleep with Skwisgaar. Ever. His crotch's got more critters than a pettin' zoo." He flicked his own cigarette away. "So, fer the record, you did somethin' he ain't never gonna get ta do."

Toki grinned happily. "Hey, ja, dat ams right!"

"Sure is. Plus, yer a smart kid. I bet you can find some way ta get back at Skwis if he gets on yer nerves."

"Maybe I takes his big bottle of de lubes and spills it all over de stairs nears to his rooms…"

"Gahd, yer vicious!" Pickles laughed, dropping an arm around the grinning guitarist. "Well, that was fun. I may freak out when I sober up, but it was still fun. We ought'a do it again sometime. But fer now I'm votin' we take a nap. Sound good?"

"Sounds real goods. Sleeps well, Pickle." Toki snuggled—yes, snuggled, there was no other word for it—against the drummer's side and was snoring in minutes.

Pickles watched him for a while, fighting off deeper than average thoughts with a stick, before he too settled down. Thinking could wait a while. He slept better with Toki beside him, anyway.

- / - / - / - / -

The end


End file.
